Supposed To Be
by scion.of.morbidity
Summary: Voldemort transferred the bond of hatred once shared by Harry and himself to another and mutilated it until it formed a bastardised bond of artificial love stronger than any sacrifice. A play on soul bonds.


Supposed To Be

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

The warbling sound of Celestina Warbeck could be heard blaring from the room next door. Her screeching tones belted through battered wooden walls and antique soundproofing wards alike, causing both Harry and his companion to cringe slightly, although each had a distinctly different reason. Harry had been rendered tone-deaf from a product of Fred and George's and since had found no enjoyment in music of any sort, although only Warbeck had elicited a reaction of such loathing in him. The lady before him enjoyed opera and occasionally some jazz to spice things up, but couldn't understand the hype over all that modern music and was, indeed, quite fearful of its popularity.

As Celestina hit her final note a cuckoo clock chimed from the wall in total discordance.

What followed was not the awkward silence both would have found preferable but the mewling of a cat, a clatter of plates… then dear old Celestina was stirring up her cauldron _yet again…_

Growling in frustration, the Harry raised his wand and, with a quick spell, fixed the wards.

Together, they sighed in relief.

"For what it's worth, I am sorry." The elderly woman half-whispered pitifully. The cynicism and resilience that had once simultaneously characterised her very being and made him dread being in her presence had died along with her husband two months ago. Harry found it hard to look on her, though whether for pity or scorn at her condition he wasn't sure. "You don't deserve this at all, dea- Harry. You deserve a nice, full life with someone who loves you-"

Harry glowered at her until her words faltered and she went back to staring at her knees where her hands were gripping her faded woollen skirt.

"I don't care what you think." His words were of the same volume, but harsher. She flinched, but he couldn't bring himself to care. "You – how dare you! How dare you speak to me! How dare you tell me that – that…"

Harry felt if he continued he might just cry, so instead he turned away and snarled in frustration. He needed to punch something. Curse someone. Kill someone. Maybe they'd take him to Azkaban then, and he could escape all this…

Arabella Figg hadn't said a word. Harry looked up in confusion only to find she was shaking in terror. Her eyes were filled with horror in an expression similar to that of a house elf awaiting punishment and Harry found he couldn't be angry at her much longer. It was too useless. She was too weak.

Pathetic.

He groaned, flinging himself back onto the bed – his for the summer – and held his head in his hands.

"This is the _wizarding world_. With _magic_. Surely _something _can be done… I mean…" He grasped at any reasoning his mind could think of, groping around in the dark for a lifeline and coming up blank. "It's _magic._"

"Dumbledore gave up, Harry." Now she was looking down on him, her big grey eyes filled with pity and regret. "It's useless."

"No…" He whispered. He knew he was wrong. Hermione had scoured a thousand books and Dumbledore a million more. They had spoken to every contact, every Unspeakable, every person of magical importance, every goblin, every person they'd come across… They'd even interrogated the few Death Eaters who hadn't managed to break out of Azkaban yet. Nobody had come up with a solution.

But Harry couldn't let himself believe it. He didn't know what he'd do if he gave up.

"You don't have to do this, Harry. I would understand. Everyone would understand-"

"And then I'd be dead. I've got a choice between three months to live, or three decades. If I had to make the choice, it wouldn't be hard…" He sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, "but it won't come to that. Because I'll figure out a way to get us both out of this. I'm the Boy-Who-Lived – I survived the killing curse and I've escaped Voldemort four times since. If anyone can get us out of this contract…" But he couldn't finish the sentence. His eyes were too red and his breathing too erratic.

And suddenly her arms were around him, holding him close as she had refused to do when he was small and he'd run to her place when Dudley had been out and pursuing him through the streets, even prior to the invention of 'Harry Hunting'. She still smelt of cats and cabbage, and Harry bet her living room hadn't been redecorated in a century and a half, but somehow it reminded him of a family – a loving grandaunt, if not a mother, which made _this _all the more horrifying.

"_It wasn't supposed to be like this_." He choked. What it was _supposed _to be like he wasn't sure, but certainly not this. Fate couldn't have planned something so foul and horrendous for a boy who'd done nothing but tried to help.

But then again it wasn't so much Fate as Voldemort who had designed this horror for him. Voldemort who'd killed Harry's parents at such a young age. Voldemort who'd linked his very soul to Harry's. Voldemort who had, in a fit of cruel cunning, linked Harry's own life to that of Arabella Figg.

"I know, dear." She whispered.

And the kicker was that she _did _know. She could sense his emotions, hear his every thought if she so chose, just as he could do the same to her in return. The bond of hatred once shared between Harry and Voldemort had been exchanged for a bastardized bond of love between Harry and Arabella. Now Voldemort was free to live his life without fearing Harry, just as Harry was free to live his without Voldemort after him – as long as his _wife _was alive, at least.

He rubbed his cheek against her head, nuzzling her. She hummed in response.

He hadn't spoken to Ginny – he'd been unconsciously avoiding her since they'd broken up on the last day of term and had declined an invitation to the Burrow. When Professor Dumbledore had discovered, barely a fortnight ago, what Voldemort had done and subsequently informed Harry, he'd refused point-blank to see any of his friends, excluding Ron and Hermione of course. Ron, surprisingly understanding, hadn't questioned Harry when he'd requested a small photograph of Ginny. The girl normally stood on his nightstand, but for this meeting he'd shoved her under his pillow.

Every night he stared at the portrait, searching for something, anything. She would know by now – how could she not with the thousands of articles filling the Daily Prophet to the brim with 'facts' about his scandalous affair with a witch old enough to be his great grandmother? She hadn't owled him yet.

He didn't know if he wanted her to.

In fact, he didn't know anything in regards to Ginny. He didn't know whether his urge to break up with her had come from a desire to protect her, or if it had been a decision influenced by the accursed _soul bond_. He couldn't tell if he avoided her because he felt he had betrayed her, or worse, that to see her would itself be an act of betrayal to the one person who would literally die without him.

Her hand was slowly rubbing up and down his arm reassuringly. Impulsively he leaned down and kissed her wrinkled brow in thanks.

They complemented each other, he supposed, in a sick kind of way. Where one was young the other was old. While he was rash and outgoing she had become meek and conservative. Arabella could comfort. Harry wouldn't have a clue how. He was strong. She was frail.

Which was really what Voldemort had been going for, he supposed. She was old, weak, a squib...

Pathetic.

She would be easy to dispose of, and once she was gone Harry would be dead within a week.

Voldemort wouldn't have to lift a finger.

But the worst thing wasn't that he would die young. As a child he had never considered his own death or even the possibility of it. He had been invincible, and his status as the Boy Who _Lived_ hadn't helped. Neither was it that feeling of disinterest and vague disgust he felt as he looked upon Ginny's twirling form, dancing about in autumn light at the Burrow.

No, the worst thing was that Harry couldn't help but wonder how Voldemort could have chosen someone so perfectly matched for him, so completely his opposite, so utterly _not him _in every way. How could Voldemort, a mere man though he tried to deny it, have chosen a match for Harry so perfect?

The worst thing was that as _she_ hugged him he leaned into her, practically begging to be close to her. The worst thing was that there were now strange feelings inside him that sang when they were together and screamed when they were apart.

The worst thing was this _love _neither could get away from.

The worst thing was that Harry couldn't help but wonder whether this _was _Fate's true path.

For what could be more wrong than if their love was _supposed to be_?

"_And I'll thank you to give me back my heart!_"

His silencing ward had broken. He could hear voices coming from downstairs. Scuffled footsteps. A scream.

Automatically he turned to her, terrified.

They were coming.

/End/

What do you think? This little one-shot came into my head as a parody of soul bonds but morphed into a hurt/comfort/horror/tragedy-fest…. The only reason I didn't put Arabella as the second character was that it would give the plot away - should I change that?

So, long time no see... Curses to writer's block and rampant plot bunnies. I should be writing Nightmares, not random one-shots…

What's worse is as I check this for final edits a short sequel is coming to mind... Anyone think I should make this a two-shot? The sequel would have more action - and also a more definite ending.

Please review - feedback is always appreciated.


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